Easy There, Oedipus
by Younger Dr. Grey
Summary: alternatively titled, how to get away with impregnating your law professor and secretly parenting your child; or moments from a fic unwritten wherein Annalise and Wes fall into the abyss together. — takes place in season 3


alternatively titled, _how to get away with impregnating your law professor and secretly parenting your child_ ; or moments from a fic unwritten wherein Annalise and Wes fall into the abyss together.

— takes place in season 3

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 **i. or how the nicknames begin**

"I guess I can't call you waitlist anymore."

Wes rolls his eyes, but it's easy, light in a way he wishes everything else could be. "Yeah, just don't start calling me 'Daddy,' and we're fine."

Connor laughs and slaps Wes's shoulder. "Of course not!" His hand stays to really drive home his crowning moment. "Oedipus has a better ring to it."

.

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 **ii.** **or how it all begins**

Months earlier, on the guest bed, with her hands braced on either side of her and him staring up from between her knees. He trails kisses along her thighs and reaches for the pants he kicked off when they got in the room. He has to break contact with her skin long enough to seek out his wallet, and when he does, there's only money inside. (Which, of course there is. He hasn't kept anything in there since he and Meggy broke up.) He turns back to Annalise, ready to apologize or ask if she has anything or, he doesn't know, say something really, but she pulls away from him.

Scoots back further on the bed so her legs come together while her head dips behind the shadows of the room.

"Don't bother, I can't — I'm not —"

Her sentences die on her lips. Fall flat as her hands come to her stomach. She can't what?

He opens his mouth to ask, but she glances over, pleads with her eyes for him to get what she's saying. There's something off about them, something kind of hollow like she's never quite found a way to let go of what should be there. There where, in her eyes? In her stomach? In—

Oh.

Not her stomach. Further. She can't — she means she won't get pregnant. She probably can't get pregnant.

(She describes herself as barren. Empty. As dead inside as Sam is out. It's not a visual, or a conversation, for a moment like this, so she holds her tongue like she does all the memories.)

Wes lifts up so they're level again. "Annalise?" Her eyes drop to the bedspread but not before he sees them start to line. Her jaw ticks to the side a bit, and he cups a hand to her face the way she always does for him. Gently nudges her face back to neutral while his thumb brushes at her lips.

He tries her name another time. "Annalise. Look at me. Please, look at me."

A tear slips out, and her whole face trembles beneath his touch. "You shouldn't be with me. This is a mistake. This is an awful, stupid—"

"Hey." The bass in his voice cuts her off. Gets enough of a scare for her to glance his way involuntarily. He catches the gaze though, but he stumbles over the right words to say. Like, this isn't stupid; stupid is him not bringing over his clothes once he started spending all his time here and just rewashing the same three shirts and hoping nobody noticed. Or stupid was him trying to keep a relationship with Meggy afloat while he kept falling into moment after moment with Annalise. Awful was that break up, saying goodbye to someone who really was good for him but not what he needed. Awful is… awful is looking at this woman in front of him, this amazing, resilient, gorgeous woman and knowing that she doesn't know he sees that. That she can't even fathom that he wants her as she is, pretty much unconditionally.

He needs words. Something to say to convey that he doesn't care, that he's sorry she's been made to feel broken when she spends her whole life mending others, but, he's empty. Flush out of reassurances and rightful confessions. Besides, he doubts she wants to hear him profess anything right now. It'd be like he's just saying it to get back to the moment.

But fuck the moment. Fuck protection and the expectations that everyone puts on them. And fuck everyone actually. And fuck the fact that he still doesn't know what to say to make any of this better for her. She's lived with this for a while, and maybe it's his age that brings back that sting, or maybe it's her newfound sobriety, or just the fact that a casual job offer over a year ago turned into the two of them in the room he's basically completely moved into.

So fuck words. Except for this.

"If you think, for a second, that this is awful, I'm really not doing this right."

Her laugh seems almost ripped out of her. An unwitting chuckle that matches his own. And then she laughs again, and the glimpse of her teeth screams relief in a way he wants all of them to experience.

He motions to her lips, watches them as he licks his own. "Can I?"

She hesitates. Her own internal monologue probably racing through every reason she should say no. Why she should push him away. (He'll regret this.) Why she should go back to her own room. (Because she has a room; she's a grown woman hooking up in her guest bedroom.) Or maybe, all she's wondering is if this will help her forget that hollowness. Help her remember and retain all the good in her life rather than slipping back to the bad parts.

Whatever she's thinking, she winds up giving him a smirk. A little grin and a nod that has him surging forward to let his lips say everything he can't figure out how to say with words. Lets the increasing weight of him on top of her tell her, I've got you, just as you are, for as long as you'll let me; I'm not going anywhere. And when she cups his cheeks in her hands, it's kind of like he hears her reply, hears her saying back, Thank you; I need you; don't go.

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 **iii. or the morning before**

He munches down on a bowl of Kix. His laptop bag hangs off the corner of the kitchen island, but he throws it down enough over there to know it'll stay up long enough for breakfast.

"I'm just saying," and he gestures with his spoon from one side of the bowl to the other, "the only way to win a case like that would have to be illegal. I don't understand how we could solve it without Oliver hacking into their system."

She clicks her tongue at him. Her hair bounces when she turns to face him. He tries to stay focused on her face, but her hips settle against the side of the sink in a way that makes her dress bunch up just a little, and he really needs to stop letting himself do this. Stop fixating on something that can't happen between them.

"Then you have no imagination. No trust in your classmates—"

"My classmates haven't even put together that I moved." He smiles, and she gives one right back to him. "Three weeks ago."

Of course, three weeks is more or less from the moment he gave up on going back to his apartment after a night over at her place. Around the same time he realized that a break up was inevitable and that maybe Nate wasn't coming back into Annalise's life.

She rolls her eyes. "I swear, I picked the wrong bunch of you."

"Not a chance." He slurps down the milk left in his bowl. "Who else would do what we've done for you? Can you imagine Drake handling your cases? Or handling you, for that matter?"

Her hand flies to her chest in mock outrage, but she doesn't waste much time holding onto it. Lets it fall back and out in a request for his bowl. "For that, you're riding your bike to campus."

He hands it over and snatches up his bag. "That's fine. Gotta keep up appearances. Pretty soon they'll think you're keeping me." He says it casual, but he waits for her reaction. Watches as she battles between pursing her lips and swallowing a smile.

"If only you were so lucky," she says. She turns to wash the dish about then, and if he were that lucky, he'd swoop over and press against her. Come up with some dumb excuse about wanting to wash it himself, or he wouldn't even give an excuse, just siddle up to her and really drive home the meaning of Wednesday mornings.

But he's not.

He can't be.

He taps his bag once it's around him. "If only." Then slips out the room before he lets that comment settle in. If only.

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 **iv.** **or the morning after**

He skips breakfast, but only because the Five's supposed to be meeting in the living room at nine thirty, and he wakes up at nine ten to her coming back into the room with her toothbrush in her mouth.

"You slept in," she says between brushes. "Thought you'd hear the shower or something. You're normally such a light sleeper."

He stretches as languidly as he can. Struggles to keep his eyes open as he does — she brushes away from the sink; what kind of witchcraft and magic keeps her face and build up that put together?

"Guess I was tired," he says.

She hides her grin with a walk to the bathroom. "The others'll be here in ten minutes. Don't give them anything to gossip about."

"Keep smiling like that, and they'll know something's up."

"I'm not smiling over you," she says. He pushes off the bed while she spits into the sink. "They found out that—" The faucet turning on drowns out the rest of her sentence, which gives him the perfect excuse to follow after her. He's got ten minutes, so maybe there's enough time to at least see where they stand after last night.

His toes curl against the cool of the bathroom tile. She lifts up from rinsing to see him hovering in the doorway.

"What'd you say?" he asks.

"They found out that the hacking might not be as necessary as we thought. Now get ready. You can hear about it with everyone else."

He bites down a remark about him being different, about needs needing to be fulfilled and questions that could easily be answered just for him. Bites down on other questions too as she slips back past him and into the guestroom.

She calls after him, "Eight minutes, Wes."

/

He showers in less than five. Dresses in two, though his undershirt gets a little wet. Honestly, it's fine. He might smell a little strongly of fresh body wash when everyone else arrives, but the only one to do a double take is Connor, who waves his phone at Wes's face the moment he sees Wes already seated on the couch.

"Way to text me back last night, asshole," Connor says.

Michaela nods, fresh on his tail. "We wanted to talk strategy. We literally all messaged you."

Asher pokes around Michaela to say, "I told them to leave you alone. Obviously, a whole night off means someone had a make up moment in an on call room at the hospital." Asher bodyrolls his way to the couch as everyone else rolls their eyes. Wes sinks a little deeper into the couch at the insinuation. Asher continues, "Yeah, I know what they're called. Bet Meggy enjoyed catching up. Ooh, or was it a rando? Because you know those one nights—"

"Mr. Millstone—" Everyone freezes. Annalise peers over from the doorway of her office. Wes tries to maintain as straight of a face as possible while Annalise says, "Please gossip on your own time, not on mine."

Asher nods. "Of course. Sorry. Just checking up on my bro here." Then he glances at Oliver. "Not to be confused with my favorite bro. Ollie's the best. You know he spent the whole night cracking into that system, like busting it wide open, like—"

"Enough." Annalise shakes her head and makes her way into the room. She scans their faces, only lingering a few seconds too long on Wes. "Whatever night you had last night, it's over. You're not a bunch of kids in the lockerroom, and the only relationship that matters here is ours with our client. I don't want to hear anything about what you all were doing, or with whom. You hear me?"

(Wes heard her last night, panting in his ear, moaning above, below, and around him, chanting, Wes, Wes, Wes.)

He clears his throat and jumps on the group affirmation a beat behind everyone else with a "Loud and clear."

Annalise nods. "Good. Now, onto our latest discovery."

He tries to listen — really, he does — but he lets himself drift about halfway through Bonnie's explanation. Everyone else could assume how he'd spent his night as much as they want. They'd never guess it'd been here, with Annalise, or that she'd stayed with him rather than disappearing up to her room like it was nothing. And, okay, he did wake up when she first moved, but the sun had been behind the blinds, and she hadn't seemed panicked, just like she was ready to start the day. And she talked to him this morning like it was easy, so maybe, maybe this can be something they do. Maybe they can figure out a way to be more than just teacher and student, and be something great instead.

They just work in a way that doesn't have to be pretty all the time. It doesn't have to be lies, or centered only in what their lives are after the murders. It can be like this, like coming home and starting anew.

Connor nudges Wes back into the moment. "Damn, you really did have a good night last night."

Wes channels his energy back to Bonnie and keeps his grin as close to himself as possible. "I'm just… really hungry right now."

"Just go get a snack. You practically live here anyway."

He nods. "Practically."

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 **v.** **or how things get real**

He comes home sooner than expected. He must because Annalise isn't downstairs, or in her office, or really anywhere he can see. All the lights are off, so the flip of the switch makes his eyes burn. She does this sometimes. Goes out and doesn't let him know. They're not together, or anything; and even if they were, it's not like he has to know where she is at all times. He just kind of needs a moment to process that it's the night after, and she's not here to talk about it.

He toes his shoes off at the door. No rug means the dirt sort of chills in the hallway if it's tracked from room to room. He could sweep before she gets back. Or cook something, even. Though, making dinner would make this seem like a thing. Not that he doesn't want it to be a thing. It's not a thing, not a big one, because they've been working towards this for longer than he wants to admit. Them hooking up is expected. It's natural, and felt good, so it doesn't have to change anything for them.

Pasta does sound good though. Some angel hair. There's shrimp in the freezer, some garlic and probably a bit of that spaghetti sauce from a few nights back. Then it's barely even cooking. It's using up some leftovers, in a totally casual kind of way. It's nothing.

/

The spaghetti takes thirty minutes to make between the pasta boiling and seasoning the shrimp properly. If he waits to fix a plate, it's only because he hasn't properly put his stuff away from the day yet. After he drops off his bag, he can eat, like any other night when he eats before she gets back.

/

He figures that having something to drink with dinner wouldn't be a bad idea. But there's not much in way of drinks since he finished the orange juice two days ago. He could pick some up, maybe get a nice sparkling lemonade that could elevate the meal from basic leftovers.

He slips the pans into the oven and turns up the ringer on his phone. He should be back soon. Plus, she'll message if she needs him.

/

She doesn't message.

Not while he's at the store, or on his way back with two sparkling pink lemonades clinking together in his bag.

Not while he sets them in the fridge, or when he cracks one open just because he really would like to drink something other than water in this house.

Or when his stomach growls loud enough that he can't justify waiting any longer and heats himself up a plate. Or when he fixes a plate for her and puts foil on it so it can wait in the fridge.

Or when he settles onto his bed with reruns of Brooklyn Nine Nine at the lowest possible volume, or when he dozes off during one Halloween special and wakes up to Christmas time.

She doesn't message him at all. And none of the other lights are on, and the only sound in the whole house is the chief telling Santiago that he doesn't want presents. Which makes sense, presents are like physicalized versions of expectations. They're, like, holding onto someone's hopes for what this relationship means, or could mean, and if the presents don't match and people have different expectations, then maybe they spend the whole rest of the holiday wondering about whether or not they should've just gotten a giftcard and made plans to hang out with Michaela and Oliver rather than spend the whole night alone in a quiet ass house.

/

 **From Wes Gibbins to Prof. Annalise Keating (10:13p)  
** / You're not avoiding me, are you? because I kind of live in your house and that's… pretty awkward. [delete] [delete] [delete]

He deletes the text about as soon as he's done typing it. Too direct, too unassured about his position. He should try for something lighter. They're both adults. They kind of live together. This can be easy.

 **From Wes Gibbins to Prof. Annalise Keating (10:13p)  
** / I left you some food in the fridge. For whenever you get back. [delete] [delete] [delete]

The last part makes him seem petty. He's not waiting up for her. He's just wondering where she is. He gets to wonder since she's decided to hide out rather than interact with him. Which, by the way, makes no sense. If anyone's supposed to hide out after this, it should be him. He's the one who could lose all his prospects. Everyone would assume he'd gotten this far because of sleeping with his professor, and he'd have to be the one to leave if things went really sour because she's already proven that she's basically indestructible at this point. She freaking sued the university to make sure that she could still teach there. She fought every demon that lived in this house to keep it, and now she's full on avoiding coming home because of him being there.

Or worse.

What's if she's drinking?

What if her thinly protected sobriety blew up because of this?

What if—

 **From Wes Gibbins to Bonnie Winterbottom (10:14p)  
** / Have you heard from Annalise?

 **From Bonnie Winterbottom to Wes Gibbins (10:16p)  
** / No.  
/ Did you lock yourself out of the house?

He rolls his eyes.

 **From Wes Gibbins to Bonnie Winterbottom (10:18p)  
** / No. It's nothing, just wondering.

 **From Bonnie Winterbottom to Wes Gibbins (10:18p)  
** / Keep the wondering to yourself. I'm not her keeper.  
/ Tell the rest of your friends that too.

 **From Wes Gibbins to Bonnie Winterbottom (10:19p)  
** / Will do

Nice to know Bonnie still hates him. He clicks back to the chat with Annalise.

 **From Wes Gibbins to Prof. Annalise Keating (10:20p)**

He needs to say something simple, something that doesn't make him seem needy. Something like….

He sighs.

 **From Wes Gibbins to Prof. Annalise Keating (10:21p)  
** / I got more juice  
/ Hey, they're doing maintenance at my building tomorrow, so I'll probably head over there to let them in.

He drums his fingers along the edge of his phone. Twists it a few times. Sighs again, and then—

 **From Prof. Annalise Keating to Wes Gibbins (10:22p)  
** / Alright. Be sure to lock up after yourself.

That's it? That's all she has to say?

 **From Wes Gibbins to Prof. Annalise Keating (10:23p)  
** / Of course.

He waits for another response, but she doesn't say anything else. Not to him, at least.

.

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End file.
